


Your Stance Is the Foundation

by Sidney Sussex (SidneySussex)



Series: Mindset [2]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-03
Packaged: 2017-10-30 13:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SidneySussex/pseuds/Sidney%20Sussex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>TRIGGER WARNING for discussion of mental health issues and bullying.</b><br/>Fitting together isn't something that just happens. Sometimes, you have to work for it. (<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/series/15068">Mindset</a> 'verse, where Clint has OCD.)</p>
<p>(Moments in the life of Clint Barton and Phil Coulson.  This is not technically incomplete; I may add to it indefinitely.  Each chapter is a stand-alone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _I neither own nor profit from any of these characters; they are the property of Marvel Entertainment, LLC._
> 
> _If you see something that you think ought to be changed or improved, please feel free to let me know, if you'd like. Constructive criticism is always welcome. (And yeah, I totally mix and mash up the comics and the movie 'verse, and play around with timelines a little. Sorry.)_
> 
> _A note: the depiction of OCD presented here is taken from traits of my own and close friends (with permission); it's not meant to offend or to instruct, only to illustrate. One person's OCD is not necessarily like any other's, and none of these behaviours necessarily define or indicate OCD. This is told through experience, not expertise, so please don't read it as anything more._

* * *

  


Written for a prompt ("Roughhousing/playing together") at Round 1 of [Clint/Coulson bingo](http://ccbingo.livejournal.com).

  


It happens in the space of an indrawn breath, between the widening of Phil's eyes as he slides his hands down to Clint's wrists for better grip and the beginning of a laugh that dies in his throat when he feels Clint seize up underneath him. Before Phil has even had time to register anything beyond _not good_ , he's flung his hands wide out to both sides, non-threatening, and Clint is scrambling away from him, back out of his reach.

It's only a second or two before they're staring at each other across a six-foot gap, breathing hard. Clint's chest is heaving, arms wrapped protectively around himself as his adrenaline-washed gaze meets Phil's.

Phil gives him time before asking, "What happened?" Simple, bland, unemotional; he's information-gathering, not judging, and the wild look leaves Clint's eyes a little as he drops his arms and sidles a few inches closer to Phil.

"Just… just don't grab me like that, okay?" he manages, and even as the rational part of Phil's brain takes notes – _no wrists, no arms behind his back_ – the other part, the part where Clint is already deeper-ingrained than Phil is comfortable admitting, is cursing him for not having thought of that in advance.

There's no way he could have anticipated this, of course, but then, that's why this isn't the rational part of his brain.

He wants to ask why, wants to know what happened to Clint to make him go from laughing, wrestling, mischievous sparks in his eyes to _this_ with just one touch – but this thing they have is still new and apprehensive and fragile, and Phil's not sure he's earned the right to ask those questions yet.

They'll get there, if he's careful and learns from mistakes like this.

"Is this okay?" he asks, closing the gap between them and slipping one arm around Clint's shoulders.

Clint leans into him, yielding to the touch. "It's fine," he says. "It's good. But there's one problem…"

"What?" Phil asks, poised, waiting, ready to back away if Clint asks him to.

"It's unprotected," Clint says, and his grin flickers back to life as he launches himself at Phil.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

  


Written for a prompt ("Sharing secrets") at Round 1 of [Clint/Coulson bingo](http://ccbingo.livejournal.com).

  


Phil hates it when they encounter incompetent villains. It just makes for so much extra _paperwork_.

They're sitting on the floor of Phil's room, against the side of the bed, and Clint's doctoring his wrists. The people (and Phil hesitates to use the word) they've taken down this time had him too tightly locked in old handcuffs, discards from police forces long since updated to safer technology. Clint's wrists are rubbed raw over the bones, bruises shading the skin dark around the bloodied areas. His arms are sore from being pulled around, Phil knows, and it's slow going as he tries to clean the cuts one-handed.

He knows he shouldn't ask to help, but he does anyway.

"I'm fine," Clint says, not looking up from the iodine wipe he's trying to use without making things worse, so Phil just sits and watches him.

The bandages are another matter, though, and it's as Clint is awkwardly trying to keep the end of one in place and straighten it out and wrap it all at the same time that Phil says, "Clint."

He stops.

"Let me help you."

Clint looks at him sidelong and Phil can see his fingers gripping the bandage, sinking in so that stray pieces of gauze escape and fall across white knuckles.

"Let me help you."

The second offer is a reminder, _I understand, we can work with this_ , and they both know that. Clint does things twice; he doesn't need Phil to do it, but it's a way to say that they're in this together.

Clint lets go of the bandage, hugs his arms to his stomach and curls around them, holding Phil's gaze but sending a clear message. _Not okay._

Phil raises his eyebrows, holds out his hands helplessly, sends one right back. _Why?_

They sit, neither one speaking, neither moving to do anything, until Clint's shoulders drop in a sigh, head falling forward so he's staring at the floor in front of him. "You've read my files."

"I read everyone's files."

"I had a brother."

Phil knows that, although he doesn't know much more about it. Clint's files have no names under 'next-of-kin,' just a S.H.I.E.L.D. notification number to call if he's ever neutralized. His one surviving family member is not a part of his life anymore, and Phil hasn't tried to find him, because Clint obviously wants to keep it that way.

"At the orphanage, at school, the other kids'd catch me. You know, doing stuff."

Phil can guess. Checking everything in his bunk or testing the handles of locked doors or trying to peer through the windows of the school during recess to see the clocks, because he would have had to know, _needed_ to know, what time it was. He thinks of Clint, skinny and ten years old maybe, trying to cope and having no way, and his heart breaks a little for it.

"And they'd – surround me, you know, so I couldn't run, and tell me they were going to take away all the clocks so that I couldn't see them anymore. And I was a stupid kid, I believed them."

He's hunched over more than ever now, arms tight around himself, and it's a position Phil's getting uncomfortably accustomed to seeing. He wants to reach out right now and pull Clint out of his protective shell, prove to him that he's safe here, that he can let down his guard, but that kind of proof takes time.

"And then they started to tease Barney, too," Clint says with effort. "And Barney was older and they were bullies, so he had a choice."

Phil knows what's coming before Clint says it.

"Hurt me or get hurt."

So Clint tells him about the way Barney would point it out loudly to the other kids whenever he saw Clint twitching or ticcing; the way, when he noticed fingers drumming on Clint's leg, he'd yell in a near-perfect imitation of their father, 'Stop the goddamn tapping!' And the way, when Clint didn't, _couldn't_ , he'd grab Clint's wrists and pull his hands behind his back, holding too tight, hurting his little brother's shoulders, and Clint would struggle and scream and cry, but Barney was older and stronger and Clint couldn't get away from him.

And eventually Clint got older, too, and he learned that the trick was just to hang on long enough for the kids to get bored; that if he bit his lip until it bled and closed his eyes and counted under his breath, two by two, they'd lose interest and leave him alone. It took longer for Barney than for anyone else, but eventually, even Barney would drop his hands and give him a rough shove, and then Clint could get away.

Clint doesn't tell him about creeping away into a hidden corner of the schoolyard, shaking and pressing his face into his sleeve so that he didn't cry. He doesn't tell Phil about tapping his fingers against the schoolyard fence and counting under his breath and shaking his head hard enough that it hurt, until he didn't feel like he was going to explode. He doesn't tell Phil any of those things, but Phil guesses at them anyway, and sits there in front of Clint without words, and aches.

When Clint runs out of words, or breath, or bravery, they're quiet together. The iodine wipes are forgotten, bleeding brown onto the carpet from one corner of the first-aid kit; the bandage Clint was trying to apply lies half-unrolled on the floor by his knee.

Phil's never moved as slowly or as cautiously as he does now, reaching out for the medical supplies and sorting them out with silent practicality. The job is done before he breaks the silence, and when he does, it's with a bandage in his hand and a calm, serious look in his eyes that Clint recognizes.

"Clint," he says, "let me help you."

Even though he's asked, even though it's the only practical way to get this done, it still almost knocks the air out of him when Clint bites the inside of his lip and mutters, "Go ahead."

Phil takes Clint's hand and wraps the bandage carefully around his wrist.

It's nothing. It's one field agent patching up another after a mission. It's perfectly ordinary; happens all the time. It's nothing.

It's everything.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

  


Written for a prompt ("Sustained eye contact") at Round 1 of [Clint/Coulson bingo](http://ccbingo.livejournal.com).

  


He finds it online, a day or two after he begins to look up terms and definitions, symptoms and reactions, treatments and therapies. Phil is good at paperwork of any kind; it's how he approaches problems, and it's his best bet for approaching this one as well. There are neat, ruled lines along his pages; thin block letters heading up each new section; margin notes in narrow, sloping handwriting. This one gets its own page, divided into four sections: re-label, re-attribute, re-focus, re-value.

Clint comes into his office that night around nine o'clock, sets a cup of coffee down in front of him, and straightens the papers Phil has stacked up around himself. This is where taking notes on a yellow legal pad has its downfall, because Clint finds it, looks at it, then looks at Phil.

"What's this for?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

Phil shrugs. "I was just doing some research," he says.

Clint's face is carefully blank as he skims the pages of neat writing. When he reaches the last page, he tears them all off the notepad, folds them over (once, twice), and drops them in Phil's recycling bin.

His meaning is obvious. _I don't need this._

Phil frowns at the discarded sheets. "It's not for you," he says. "It's for me. For my own peace of mind."

There's a hesitation, and Phil takes the opportunity to retrieve the papers from the recycling.

"Fine," Clint growls softly, "but I don't want to hear a word about it."

For weeks, Phil keeps that promise. He watches Clint have good days and bad ones, watches him struggle and succeed. Clint's right; he does a damn good job of coping and accounting for his issues, and if Phil didn't know what he was looking for, he wouldn't be seeing it at all.

Phil hates looking at Clint on harder days and knowing he could help. That's what eventually does him in, setting aside his paperwork at nearly three in the morning and finding an empty bed in his quarters. Clint's still down at the range, then, target practice he began eight hours ago.

The target is in tatters when Phil steps into the room, and Clint's still nocking, drawing, firing, without cease. There's blood on his left hand, because Clint doesn't know when to say enough is enough. Phil waits until his quiver is empty before approaching, and it's only as he gets within arm's reach that he sees Clint's lips moving just a fraction, hears the low mutter of words he can't discern.

Clint's eyes lock on his, and it's the haunted look in them that breaks Phil's resolve not to mention anything he's read online. Clint's asking _help me_ , as clearly as if he were saying it, except that Clint would never, ever use those words.

He lays his hands on Clint's shoulders, pressure firm and steady because that helps. This isn't something he's read about; he sees it every night when Clint relaxes in his arms, gears of his mind slowing as he focuses his world down to Phil and nothing else.

Without taking his eyes from Clint's, Phil says, "Re-label."

"What?"

"Re-label," he repeats. "Slow down. Stop panicking. They're just thoughts, Clint."

Clint doesn't know what's going on here, but Phil's come to get him and the weight of his arms is helping and the calmness of his expression is helping and the rhythm of his words is helping, so Clint nods. "Re-label."

"Re-attribute."

"Re-attribute?"

"Just thoughts. Not your fault."

Clint mumbles, "I get stuck sometimes."

"I know. Not your fault."

"Re-attribute," Clint whispers. "Not my fault."

"Re-focus. Think about something else; do something else."

A twitch in the direction of the target, half hanging off the wall beside them, it's been shot so many times, but Clint's eyes still don't leave Phil's. That seems like it might be all that's grounding him right now. "Like what?"

"Like this. Re-value."

"Re-value." By now, Clint is automatically repeating what Phil says, waiting for an explanation he knows is coming.

"It's not you, Clint. It's just misfiring."

"I never misfire."

Phil smiles. "I know. See? It's not you."

Clint smiles back, just a little. "I never misfire."

And Phil has to reach out and pull him close for that, for the smile, for the trust, for the repetition Clint only allows himself when the two of them are alone.

"Re-label," Clint says into the creased fabric of Phil's shirt, "re-attribute, re-focus. Re-value."

"Helps?" Phil asks, though he's pretty sure he knows the answer already.

Clint nods into his shoulder. "Mmm," he says absently. "Helps. Let's go to bed."

He doesn't question Phil's online research any more after that.


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

  


Written for a prompt ("Listening to heartbeat or breathing") at Round 1 of [Clint/Coulson bingo](http://ccbingo.livejournal.com).

  


Clint gets injured a lot. Phil's used to that by now; keeps a first-aid kit in his office and another in their quarters; knows when to manhandle Clint down to the infirmary and when to let him take care of things himself; reacts with equanimity when Clint shows up in front of him all blood and dust and chunks of New York sidewalk in his hair. That's normal for them these days.

When Phil gets injured, Clint doesn't deal with it very well. To be fair, Clint usually shows up still walking, still conscious, laughing as he staunches the flow of blood from a wound somewhere. He doesn't come home like _this_ , carried in Thor's arms, still and pale and silent in the echoing emptiness of the mansion without him.

The mansion sounds the same as ever. It's Clint who can't hear it over the strange, rushing silence that suddenly fills his ears and threatens to drown out his entire brain. He runs behind Thor all the way to the infirmary, follows the doctors as they take Phil into emergency care, pushes his way through the doors until someone holds up a hand and tells him he can't go any farther. Then he finds a partially-hidden corner – good enough – and lets his fingers drum against the stainless-steel floor of the medical bay, lets his face twitch with involuntary tics, lets himself whisper underneath his breath, _In Xanadu did Kubla Khan_ …

It's Phil's favourite poem.

He checks his new watch every few seconds until he sees them move Phil again, then trails behind them to the room where they leave him. That's wrong, somehow, he thinks; shouldn't they be keeping an eye on Phil? Shouldn't there be some kind of medical authority around?

No one comes in for five minutes, ten, twenty, and Clint edges away from the wall. An hour and he's sitting in the chair by the bed, fingers loosely clasped around Phil's wrist (it's okay; he's learning to reclaim that kind of touch), feeling the pulse thrum in the thin tendons when an orderly comes in and checks Phil's stats.

Clint wants to know what's going on, so he asks, "He's gotta wake up sometime, right?"

"Not for a while," the orderly says. "He's under sedation orders 'til tomorrow."

"Oh," is all Clint says to that. _All night._ "How often do you check on him?"

"Once every hour," is the answer, and Clint sets the fancy multi-channel timer on the atomic watch to count the seconds off. When the orderly leaves, he considers for a moment, then decides he gives absolutely no fucks what the medical staff think and crawls up onto the bed beside Phil.

Laying his head against Phil's chest – cautiously, gently, because he's still not quite clear on just how badly Phil was hurt – is so much better than his fingers on Phil's wrist. The beat is more than just a faint sensation now; it fills his mind, driving away the things he doesn't want to think, the things he doesn't want to have to _do_.

Phil calms him. Even unconscious, Phil is good for him.

It hits him low and deep in his stomach when he thinks that, because he'll never, ever be completely over the old fear. Not good enough, not strong enough, not compliant enough; Phil, conscious, pushes away the worry and kisses him calm; unconscious, Clint still needs him so much that he doesn't know what would happen to him if Phil ever decided that those doubts might have some foundation in truth.

"You know," he whispers into Phil's heartbeat, "I don't know what I'd do if I lost you."

His watch ticks off the minutes.

"Phil, never," he says, even softer now, "ever, ever do that again. I'm the one that gets hurt. Not you."

His watch ticks off the minutes.

"I – "

This isn't something he should say to Phil before he wakes.

"I…"

It's easier this way, though. Just for the first time.

"I love you, Phil."

His watch ticks off the minutes.

Phil's heart beats steadily.

They're going to be okay.


End file.
